Page 77 of The Dead Don't Talk
He nods, a trickle of sweat trailing down his brow and tucks in close to flank me.
Silently, we weave through the buildings, stabbing and slicing anything dead or dying as we go.
When the break in the buildings opens up to the middle of the community’s center where I know the plays are held, my surprise leaves me in a huff.
There’s a small fire by the edge, bodies lining the roadway, and the cries of the living filling the air.
What I’m not expecting is the decomposed to be essentiallygone.
Dead.
Unmoving.
The farther we go into the old city, the denser the people, the more the disarray begins to register.
Newly busted windows and broken brick. Overturned bins and baskets, contents missing. Doors hanging from hinges or missing.
Raided.
I peek inside the seamstress’s shop as we pass, his racks all emptied and lopsided, material strewn over the floor. He says something in aggressive French that I don’t understand.
Amo responds right back.
In French.
“Whoa … baby?” I clutch my chest and shoot a loaded grin at him as Moros wonders farther ahead. “You speak a second language?”
He smirks over his shoulder at me, and my dick jumps.
He says something else, something that sounds like a third language, and I feel actual butterflies in my stomach.
“You continue to surprise me.”
There’s a warmth to his cheeks as he finishes talking with the seamstress, consoling him in a way, I think.
Though I don’t know because I can’t understand a fucking word.
And yet, I watch his lips form each syllable with precision, the smoothness of his voice making my dick even harder.
“Okay, he said—”
“Son of abitch. Those fucking assholes!”
Moros’s coarse tone draws me back out into the street, Amo on my heels.
“Boss?”
He storms out of the bakery with the broken off lid, jagged glass covered in bright red goop, raised in the air.
“The motherfuckers took the cherry shit!”
Chapter 40
Never again
Moros
Slipping away from Wilsonand Amo is easy in the chaos of uncertainty and the commoners that all demanded answers.
